


a vous my ly

by merrymegtargaryen



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27248098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/pseuds/merrymegtargaryen
Summary: A Vous My Ly. I am bound to you.
Relationships: Anne Neville Queen of England/Richard III of England
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itslaurenmae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itslaurenmae/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Lauren! I tried to incorporate all your favorite things <3

It’s snowing.

Anne stands on the bench, watching the white flakes fall. Snow means winter. It was nearing the end of spring when she came here. Spring, summer, autumn...and now winter. Almost four seasons she’s spent here at Westminster Palace.

_ In prison. _

She knows she ought not to think that way...but how can she help it? Isabel and George told her she was in mourning and must be reserved. They told her she must not be too much in mixed company, and must let George take care of her as he is now her guardian. They told her that it was better to stay in his apartments, where she could devote herself to quiet and contemplation.

“What is there to contemplate?” she’d asked Isabel.

“You have suffered a great loss,” said her sister indulgently. “You have lost your father, and your husband, and you may as well have lost your mother.”

“They were your parents too, Iz.”

Isabel hadn’t wanted to hear that. “Our parents abandoned me,” she’d said coolly. 

“They abandoned me too.”

“Father died fighting for  _ your _ husband, not mine.” That was the most emotion Isabel had shown in all of Anne’s months of captivity, and she had not seen it again; after that, Isabel was the cool and dignified Duchess of Clarence again, not Izzy, the sweet and silly older sister that Anne used to adore. 

_ She resents me because Father died trying to put me on the throne, but he gave up on her once she lost her baby.  _

That was ill done, but then, everything their father had done after the king married the queen had been ill done. He had misliked Elizabeth Woodville, as had they all...but where everyone else only gossiped and giggled behind their hands, he was a man of action. He had pulled one king ruled by a vicious queen from the throne, why not another?

Edward, George, Edward, Henry, and then Edward again. What a mess he’d made of things.

_ And now here I am, a prisoner to my own brother-in-law. _

She thinks that George resents her for her father, too. Father had promised to make him king, and instead he’d cast George to the side in favor of an alliance with Margaret of Anjou, who’d killed George’s father and older brother. Of course George resented Father for that...Father, and now Anne, the daughter Father had favored towards the end, and not the daughter that George had been saddled with.

Isabel makes her customary knock--two quick raps on the door--before entering. “Anne, what are you doing?”

“It’s snowing,” Anne tells her, still peering out the window. It’s a high window, one she has to climb onto her bench to see out of. Sometimes she wonders if that was done on purpose. 

“Yes, I suppose it is. Why don’t you get down from there, you’re making me nervous.”

Anne has learned it’s better not to fight; she hops down from the bench, turning to look at her sister. “What day is it?”

“What day? Why, it’s December the second.”

“December already,” Anne murmurs. 

“What do you mean, already?”

“Nothing, it’s only…” Anne hesitates. “I’ve been here a long time.”

Isabel scoffs. “Well, where else do you have to be?”

“Nowhere, I suppose. Will we be spending Christmas here?”

Isabel tightens the shawl around her arms. “Yes. The king wants to have his family around him. Your year of mourning is not yet over...but George says that as it is the birth of our lord, you may attend the festivities.”

Anne’s heart leaps. She has not been allowed outside George’s apartments these many months, and now to attend the festivities? There will be feasting and dancing, and people to talk to who aren’t George or Isabel or the tight-lipped servants they employ.

_ Richard will be there. _

“Thank you, Iz,” Anne breathes. “I’ll behave perfectly, I promise.”

Isabel looks pleased. “I’m sure you will.” She eyes Anne’s dress. “We must have something new made for you.”

“A new dress?” Anne asks excitedly. She has not had a new anything in a long time. She’s worn the same three blue dresses since Tewkesbury, a symbol of her mourning. They’ve gotten tight in the chest, and once a seam had split along her hip, but Isabel had granted her the means to alter the dresses. And now she’s going to give Anne a new dress. Maybe even several dresses; after all, it wouldn’t do to wear the same one throughout the Christmas festivities. People would talk.

Sure enough, Isabel says, “Several, I should think. We can’t have people thinking George neglects you.”

_ No, just keeps me locked away. _

“I should like that very much,” Anne says, trying to focus on being pleasant. It is always better when she tries to be pleasant. 

“Good. I’ll have the seamstress come straightaway.” Isabel starts to leave.

“Thank you, Iz.”

“You’re welcome, Anne.”

Anne waits until her sister is gone before climbing up on the bench again. She’s going to watch the snow fall for as long as she can. After all, there isn’t anything else to do here.

.

Isabel is as good as her word; one of London’s finest seamstresses comes with her apprentice to take Anne’s measurements and offer up an array of fabric for Isabel to inspect. 

For a short while, it feels almost like they were girls again, holding up fabric in the mirror so they can see what it will look like on Anne. Isabel is persuaded to buy her sister dresses of blue wool trimmed in white fur, green wool trimmed in black, green and gold silk, black and red damask. 

“I shall have them ready within a fortnight, my ladies,” the seamstress promises before she and her apprentice leave.

“New dresses,” Anne breathes. “Oh, I can’t wait to wear something new.”

“It  _ has _ been a long time since you had a new dress,” Isabel admits. “Not since we were last in England, was it?”

“Margaret of Anjou had a dress made for my wedding, but...I don’t know what’s happened to it.”

“That’s for the best,” Isabel says with a touch of coldness. “Better that that dress and all it means is forgotten.”

Anne looks at the floor. “I wish I could forget.”

Isabel is quiet for a moment...and then she reaches for her sister’s hand. “Was he cruel to you?”

Anne can only nod.

Isabel shakes her head. “Our father never should have arranged your marriage. He should have given up and begged the king’s forgiveness the moment we were denied harbor at Calais. Better yet, he never should have risen up against the king at all.” She drops Anne’s hand, pacing to the mantel. “Heavens, the light in here is terrible!”

“It is,” Anne agrees, watching her sister carefully.

Isabel turns back to her. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you, staying cooped up here. It’s only...George thought it would be best if you were with family.”

“Why can’t I be with family and leave the apartments from time to time?”

“It wouldn’t be proper,” Isabel says automatically. “You’re a widow, you can’t be in mixed company.”

“Then why keep me at court? Why not at Middleham or Warwick Castle, where at least I could have freedom of the castle?”

A flicker of uncertainty passes over Isabel’s eyes. “Well...George wanted to keep you close, and he is needed here at court.”

“Is he?”

She’s gone too far; Isabel’s face flushes with anger. “Yes, he is. He’s an important man.”

Anne hangs her head, knowing her sister’s vanity must be soothed. “Of course. I’m sorry. I did not mean anything by it. I only wish...I did not have to be in mourning. Not for Edward of Lancaster.”

Isabel softens. “I know. I wish it was not so, too. But just a few more months and your year of mourning will be over.”

“And then I can...be in mixed company?”

“Of course.”

It’s December now, and Tewkesbury was in May. Five more months, and then she can be free. It seems an interminable amount of time...but Anne will endure.

She must.

.

The seamstress is as good as her word, arriving eleven days later with Anne’s new dresses. Anne tries all of them on, beaming when she sees her reflection in the glass. She’s so used to seeing the same drab, worn blue gowns. The new colors almost seem to bring a new light to the room, and they show her things she had not noticed about herself until now. The tightness in her old dresses, the way the cloth stretches around her chest and hips, is the result of a woman’s body that’s been slowly budding. Rather than hide it, the new dresses accentuate her features. 

Isabel even brushes out her hair and braids it around her ears the way their mother used to wear it; this, paired with the jewels Isabel lends her, makes Anne look like a real lady.

_ Maybe if they see me like this, they’ll forget about my father and my husband, _ she thinks, turning this way and that to admire her reflection. Maybe some eligible lord will see her and be enchanted with her.

Instantly, her mind turns to Richard, George’s brother and her childhood friend.

_ Though I always wanted to be more than friends someday. _

It wasn’t out of the question; noble children are often sent to foster at another household for a number of reasons, including someday arranging a marriage. Anne knows that the primary reason Richard was sent to Middleham was because their fathers were close, and her father, lacking sons himself, was always fostering boys, but the idea of Richard marrying her or Isabel must have crossed their parents’ minds at some point or other. She doesn’t remember when it started, but when she was young, she became certain that one day she and Richard were to marry. He and Izzy had no interest in each other, but he was always kind to Anne, and she was more than a little fond of him. She always thought he was handsome (despite Izzy insisting he was funny-looking), and she liked that he was more serious than the other boys. 

He’d left Middleham when she was twelve and he was sixteen; he was a man now, and it was time for him to take up his duties as the Duke of Gloucester and brother to the king. They’d still seen each other from time to time, mostly at court, and still she’d thought they’d someday marry...but then her family had been forced to leave for her father’s uprising, and the next time Anne saw Richard, she was a fresh-made widow on the battlefield, and all thoughts of marrying him were pushed to the side. She’d been tired and miserable and full of grief, and she’d only wanted to see Isabel again.

She hopes Richard will be there. It will be Christmas, after all, and he is brother to the king. And he has no wife and children of his own...not that Anne has heard, anyway. She hears so little here, but surely Isabel would have said something if her husband’s own brother was to take a wife.

As she changes back into her mourning blues, she tentatively asks, “Who all will be here, this year? At the Christmas festivities?”

“Oh, just about everyone important, I imagine,” Isabel declares, putting away the dresses with care. 

When she does not elaborate, Anne presses, “Richard, too?”

Isabel sniffs her out at once, whirling around with a sly smile on her face. “Why, Anne, you’re still besotted with him!”

Anne flushes. “I am not. I was only asking.”

“Asking because you’re besotted.” Isabel helps Anne lace her dress, still smiling. “Well, he will be, if you must know. He’s often at court.”

Anne’s heart leaps. “Often?”

“Yes; he’s devoted to the king, you know.”

“Why does he never call on George?”

Isabel hesitates. “They don’t always...see eye to eye.”

That doesn’t surprise Anne; they had rarely gotten along as children, either. Still, she does find it odd that even if they don’t see eye to eye, Richard hasn’t been to call on George at  _ all, _ considering they’re living in the same city. 

“Is he...married?”

Isabel smiles again. “No, he’s still unmarried. I hear the king has been urging him to marry, but Richard is dissatisfied with the women at court.” She smooths Anne’s hair. “Maybe that will change over Christmas.”

.

The days pass at a crawl; by the time Christmas Eve dawns, Anne is giddy with expectation. She takes a hot bath by the fire, and afterward, the maid brushes out her hair and braids it around her ears the way Anne shows her, winding black and red ribbons through the braids and around the buns to keep her hair secure. Then she dresses in the red and black damask, beaming when she sees her reflection. 

“Oh, Anne!” Isabel cries when she comes to collect her sister. “You look beautiful! George, doesn’t she look lovely?”

George appraises Anne with an expression she can’t quite make out. “Positively radiant,” he says with a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “You shall turn every head at court.” 

Anne doesn’t know what to make of this compliment; George rarely pays any attention to her, let alone enough to say something kind. Perhaps his resentment towards her is fading. He must know that none of it was her fault, that she was just doing as she was told.

George and Isabel lead the way out of the apartments; Anne follows, holding her breath as they pass the door to the outer ward, a door she had never been allowed to pass through before. But the guard, instead of lowering his poleaxe to block her path, only stands there, still as a statue as she passes him. 

It is glorious to be out of the apartments again. Though she is well familiar with the palace, she walks the limestone stairs with a new appreciation, admiring the tapestries on the wall as though she’d never seen them before. In a way, she supposes she hadn’t  _ really _ seen them; just looked past them. 

Lords, ladies, knights, and dames litter the antechamber leading to the great hall. George moves Anne and Isabel into the great hall, where King Edward and Queen Elizabeth sit in state upon their thrones. George bows while Anne and Isabel curtsy for their sovereign and his wife. Anne has not looked upon them since she made her apology in front of all the court, but in truth, that had been more of a ceremony of Lancastrian surrender than an actual conversation. Anne had said what Isabel and George had told her to say, and there was no spontaneity in the forgiveness Edward bestowed upon her, and then she had been shuffled out of sight of the victorious Yorks.

It feels strange to be before the king and queen again now, in fine damask rather than travel-worn wool, as their friend rather than their captured enemy. 

“Merry Christmas, George, Isabel,” Edward says, and then beams at Anne. “Cousin Anne! It’s good to see you again! It has been a long time, has it not?”

“It has, Your Grace,” she agrees, nervous for some reason. “But I am happy to be here now.”

“As are we all,” Edward says emphatically; and to her surprise, he gets out of his throne, coming down the steps of the dais to kiss her cheek. “You have been in mourning far too long, Cousin Anne. You must be merry tonight!”

She smiles. “I shall, Your Grace.”

He squeezes her arm. “Good.” He returns to his throne; George takes Anne by the arm, guiding her away from Edward and Elizabeth and towards the refreshments. There is cider and mulled wine; the wine is delicious, but Anne has only had a little when Edward rises from his throne, clapping his hands. “Pipers!” he bellows. “Strike up! Let’s have some music, and dancing!” He holds out a hand to his queen; she rises like a shimmering spirit, taking his hand, and the royal couple lead the others out onto the dance floor. 

George and Isabel head out to join the dance, leaving Anne alone with Duchess Cecily. Anne has always liked the other woman; her great-aunt is a proud woman, and exactly the sort of person you don’t want to cross. Not that Anne has ever had to worry about that; her great-aunt had been excessively fond of her nephew, Anne’s father, and that fondness had carried over to his daughters. But as fond as Duchess Cecily has been of the Nevilles, she is fonder still of George.

“You are looking lovely this evening, Anne,” the duchess says now, pressing a kiss to Anne’s cheek. 

“Thank you, Duchess. Your gown is most becoming.”

“Which is what everybody says when you’re too old to be called beautiful,” the duchess says wryly. “No, no, it’s true, and I shan’t take offense. I was once as young and beautiful as you. Well, not quite like you. Your hair is much lighter than mine.”

“My hair is much lighter than anyone in the family’s,” Anne sighs. “Izzy used to tell me I was a changeling.”

“You should be proud,” her great-aunt insists. “You stand out from the rest of your family.”

“I don’t want to stand out. I just want to fit in.”

“You won’t have much hope of that tonight,” Duchess Cecily tells her. “Everyone has been wondering where you were, you know.”

“Where I was?” Anne repeats in confusion. “But...I’ve been right here.”

“Yes, but no one has seen you, and there have been rumors that you were dead.” The duchess’s nostrils flare. “People will say the wildest things when the truth is right in front of them.”

Anne blinks. Dead? “Well, I’ve been right here at court. George and Isabel don’t think it’s right for me to be in mixed company right now, that’s all.”

“Oh, yes, I know. George is concerned for you, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Anne lies. She doesn’t think George is very concerned about her at all, in truth. 

“You are still young, and your inheritance is...considerable. He fears some greedy upstart will try to take your inheritance. And he’s right to fear, of course; there are graspers everywhere.” A note of venom seeps into the older woman’s voice as she glares at the flaxen heads in the crowd. 

The two women watch as Edward leads the dance at a jaunty gallop. Elizabeth is stately and sure beside him, and when the dance ends, his face is flushed and hers is not. 

_ The ice queen. _ That’s what Isabel used to call her. 

_ And now they are sisters, in a way. _

To Anne’s surprise, Edward approaches Anne as the pipers begin to strike up a second tune, slower and statelier than the first.

“Cousin Anne, will you dance with me?”

Anne looks at him in shock. “Me?”

“Yes,” Edward says with a winning smile. “You are looking far too lovely this evening to stand in the back.”

Anne glances at Duchess Cecily, who gives her a smiling nod; Anne turns back to Edward, taking his hand and letting him lead her out to the dance floor. 

There is a great deal of murmuring when everyone sees the Lancastrian widow on the hand of the York king, and Anne swears she feels glares coming from George and Elizabeth, but she ignores them, trying to focus on the dance. She hasn’t danced in so long, and even then, she’d been little more than a child. Now she is a woman, and all eyes will be on her. 

The dance is a stately almain, one where they exchange partners throughout. There are lifts, too, and Anne spends more time watching her own feet than her partners, barely paying attention to the hand in hers and the other at her waist as she is lifted and spun in a circle. She does not look up until their palms are touching, and then, she gasps.

“Richard.”

He gives her a half-smile, his grey-green eyes staring into hers. His palm is warm against hers, and his finger traces hers with a feather-light touch as they fall apart to take new partners. She dances with Antony Rivers now, but she cannot help looking back at Richard, who is watching her even while he dances with the queen. His gaze is piercing, and she feels it even when she turns back to look in front of her. 

She turns another round with the king, and then she is back with Richard, his hand light and yet so solid against her waist.

“Lady Anne,” he says softly. 

She cannot think what to say, but it matters little, for the dance continues, and they must move back to their original partners. To her horror, Edward smiles knowingly at her. 

“My brother is looking well tonight, is he not, Cousin Anne?”

She blushes until she’s sure she’s as red as her gown. “Yes, Your Grace.”

He chuckles, hand at her waist to lift her in a spin. “We shan’t tell George, shan’t we?” Without waiting for a response, he hands her off to Antony Rivers, who lifts her in a second spin, and then she is back to Richard, who catches her easily. She can hardly speak, hardly think, but it doesn’t matter, because Richard is there, and everything else seems to fade away.

When the dance is over, she curtsies before the king while the onlookers applaud. Edward rises from his bow, smiling when Richard appears at her elbow.

“Richard!” Edward greets warmly. “Does not our cousin look enchanting this evening?”

Richard is looking at her intently, and Anne only hopes he attributes her flushed cheeks to the dance. “She does,” he says, eyes never leaving hers. 

The beautiful moment is shattered by George, who butts in with a suspicious expression. “Richard. Didn’t see you come in.”

“I was already here,” Richard says with an unruffled sort of pleasance. “Merry Christmas, George.”

“Merry Christmas,” George says, still with that suspicious-looking face. “What are you all talking about?”

“We are still catching our breaths,” Edward laughs. “You have a suspicious mind, brother. Some wine will cheer you. Come!” He throws an arm around George’s shoulders, steering the other man away.

Anne turns back to Richard. “Well.”

“Well,” he echoes, that half-smile on his face again. “Will you dance with me?”

She nods, taking his hand as the next dance begins. This is another almain, but there are no changing of partners here, for which Anne is grateful. 

“How have you been?” Richard asks, leading with an easy grace. 

“Bored. Terribly bored. What about you?”

“Fine. Have you been alright, though? George hasn’t been...mistreating you?”

“Of course not. I’ve been in mourning is all.”

“Even widows leave their rooms.”

“I can leave my room, just not the apartments,” she tells him. “He and Isabel don’t want me to be in mixed company. Your mother says it is because he fears someone will take advantage and marry me for my fortune.”

“He needn’t shackle you to his apartments to prevent that,” Richard says with a look of disdain on his face. 

She’s quiet for a moment, turning under his arm. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I was in George’s apartments.”

“Well, that’s what he kept saying.”

“But did you believe it?”

“I didn’t know,” he admits. “He wouldn’t let me into his apartments, and I knew if I dug my heels in and demanded, that would only make things worse. So I took the path of least resistance.”

“By not doing anything?”

“Of course not. I started the rumor that you were dead.”

She looks at him in dismay. “That was you?”

He has that half-smile on his face again. “George is a proud man. I knew if he heard rumors that he’d killed his sister-in-law and ward, he’d be determined to prove them wrong by displaying you at court. If you appeared, I’d know you were alive and well. If you did not appear, I would have forcefully inquired as to your whereabouts.”

She can hardly believe it. He went to all of that trouble just to know where she was? “Why did you do that?”

He looks at her. “Why do you think?”

She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t have to answer, for the dance ends and they bow and curtsy to one another. Richard takes her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before he winks at her and strides away.

George is at her side almost at once. “What did my brother say to you?”

She smothers a spark of irritation. “He said he thought I was dead.”

George seethes. “What a ridiculous rumor. I’d like to know who started it; I’d give the fool a sound thrashing.”

Anne bites back a smile. 

.

The twelve days of Christmas are the happiest Anne has felt in ages. There is feasting and dancing, and the giving of gifts. Anne had not expected anything, so she is thrilled to receive a beautiful emerald bracelet from Izzy, an elegant gold cross necklace from George, and surprisingly, a yard of white silk from the king and queen.

Best of all, though, is the gift from Richard. 

It comes on the twelfth day. They have talked and laughed and danced every single one of those days, though always with George hovering nearby. They talk of innocent things--the apparel of various members of court, who is married to whom, and most often, the past they shared at Middleham--yet despite their innocent words, Anne feels sure that there is something more beneath it all. Richard watches her with an intensity she’s never seen before, and though she feels quite pinned to the spot by it, she also feels warm and flushed. She likes the wholeheartedness with which he listens and speaks to her, the way his hand rests on her back when they’re walking and the way he looks into her eyes when he kisses her hand. When they share a trencher at feast, he is so attentive to her needs that he hardly pays attention to his own. 

Richard has always been a considerate person; it was one of the many things she’d liked about him when they grew up together. Where Anne had been a plain and easily overlooked child, he’d talked to her like a real person, had asked about her day and what she thought of certain things as if he really cared. She had assumed that he was just that kind of person...but there’s something different to the attention now. 

“What do you think it means?” she’d asked Isabel, and her sister had rolled her eyes.

“Really, Anne! You’ve spent all this time mooning after Richard, and now that he’s returning your feelings, you haven’t noticed it?”

That had made her flush. “He isn’t returning my feelings...is he?”

Isabel had only rolled her eyes again. 

On the twelfth day, Richard hands her a book--a beautifully illuminated copy of the New Testament. 

“Thank you,” she breathes when she takes it. Books are precious gifts, and a great deal of time and effort was put into this one. “I feel so ashamed, I have not gotten you anything…”

He leans close, murmuring, “Your gift can be to meet me in the yew garden after dinner. Will you do it?”

She looks up at him, nodding shyly. 

He gives her a small smile and walks off, leaving her with the book.

“What is it?” George demands, coming up beside her. “What did he give you?”

“A copy of the New Testament, look,” she says, showing him.

George sneers. “What a boring gift.” He walks off, too.

Anne turns the book over in her hands, opening up the front cover again. This time, she sees a line written in Richard’s hand.

_ A Vous My Ly. _

_ I am bound to you.  _

Her heart pounds as she looks up after Richard.

_ I am bound to you. _

These twelve days of talking and dancing and eating with her, of those intent looks and careful touches...could Isabel be right? Could Richard really care for her that way?

Anne closes the book, holding it to her chest. 

_ I am bound to you. _

.

After dinner, she excuses herself to leave the book in her room so that she can enjoy the dancing. George only nods and grunts, having imbibed a fair amount of wine. Anne does set the book carefully in her room, and then heads for the yew garden.

Richard is waiting for her by a pillar, his cheeks red from the cold and flecks of snow in his hair. 

“Anne,” he greets softly.

She pulls her cloak tighter around her.  _ “A Vous My Ly,” _ she says, watching him. “Did you mean that?”

He gives her another half-smile, his eyes warm. “I did. I do. I care very deeply for you, Anne.”

Her heart pounds. “I care for you too, Richard.”

He steps closer. “I am very glad to hear that...because it is my intention, if you are willing, to ask the king for permission to marry you.”

Her pounding heart skips a beat. “To marry me?”

“Yes.” His eyes search her, curious, almost nervous. “If you would be...agreeable.”

She can hardly think, can hardly even breathe. “I...yes. Of course. I,” she flushes, “I have dreamt of marrying you for a very long time.”

His smile grows. “As have I.” His smile falters a little. “George will...make things difficult. You getting married will mean he loses half the estate he now holds, and to his own brother, no less. He will put up a fight, I’m sure of it.”

“Then...what are we to do?”

“Leave everything to me. Say nothing of this to anyone in the meantime, but especially George.”

She nods. “I won’t. But...will I see you in the meantime?”

He considers. “We can meet in the chapel. George should have no objection to that.”

It is a good idea; not even George would be suspicious of a young widow’s piety. “Alright.” She hesitates, and then steps closer, rising up on her toes to touch her lips to Richard’s. He is still for a moment, and then he returns the kiss, putting his arm about her waist. His movements are sure and sweet, and Anne clutches his shoulders when her knees begin to buckle.

When they pull apart, she looks up at him, eyes wide. “Did I...was that alright?”

His eyes are dancing. “It was  _ wonderful, _ Anne.”

“Oh, good,” she says, still a bit nervously. “I was worried I might...not be good at it.”

“You are an exceptional kisser,” he tells her, pressing his forehead to hers, “but I would be happy to give you more practice, if you would like.”

She laughs and kisses him again, more certain of herself this time.

_ We are going to be married. _


	2. Chapter 2

They do meet in the chapel the next day, and the next, mindful of the eyes that may be on them but no less eager to see each other. George lets Anne go, very often “gallantly” insisting that a guard come with her, but the guard always stands just outside the chapel door, leaving her free to be with Richard.

Not that they go completely unwatched; others flit in and out of the chapel, kneeling a few rows away. Most of them, Anne is sure, are there for the chapel’s intended purpose, but she wouldn’t be surprised if a few were reporting to George, which is why she and Richard always kneel beside each other as if they hadn’t noticed the other there, eyes closed in prayer as mouths move in a whispered conversation. Sometimes his knee will brush hers, the most they allow each other to touch in so public a place. Their conversations only come in short little snatches, murmurs of, “I miss you” and “I love you” and “I cannot wait until we are married,” but they are enough for now.

One day, as Richard is taking his leave, he whispers, “Meet me in the confessional this time tomorrow.”

So the next day, Anne slips into the booth, closing the curtain behind her. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she says carefully.

It is Richard’s unmistakable voice that comes from the other side of the screen. “Tell me of this sin, my child.”

She smiles. “I have been keeping secrets from my guardian.”

“Oh? And what else?”

She bites her lip. “I have been having impure thoughts about the man I am to marry.”

Richard releases an audible breath. “Anne…”

She presses her fingers to the screen, only able to make out the shape of him. “Why are we in here?”

“Because I wanted to talk.” The shape on the other side shifts. “I have sent to Rome for a dispensation from the pope. It will take time, but I do not want there to be any delay when we are able to marry.”

Her heart races. “And when is that to be?”

“I’m still not sure. Edward is...evasive. He knows that George will never give his consent for our marriage, but he fears that ordering George to allow it or taking you from his guardianship will make George rise up against him with the Neville inheritance.” 

Anne had not thought of that before. “Then...what…?”

“I will think of something,” Richard assures her. “I have known my brother my whole life; there’s got to be a way to get through to him, I’m sure of it.”

“Well, don’t take too long.”

“I won’t.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Are you alright, Anne? Truly?”

“I’m alright. Just...ready to leave George’s guardianship. I am starting to suspect that the cage he keeps me in will not open when my year of mourning has ended.”

“I suspect the same.” She swears he’s pressing his own fingers against the screen. “You will tell me if you are afraid you are in danger, yes?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Good.” 

“Will it always be like this?”

“Like what, Anne?”

“Whispers in the chapel? Talking through a confession screen but never actually getting to see each other?”

Richard is quiet for a long moment. Then Anne sees him move through the screen, and hears the rustle of the curtain as he leaves the booth.

She sits there for a moment, petrified. Has she said the wrong thing? Is he angry with her?

But then the curtain to her side of the booth opens, and Richard is standing there, a blazing look in his eyes. She stands up, surprised, but Richard is already wrenching the curtain closed behind him--and then, to her pleasure, he puts his arms around her and draws her even closer before kissing her. Not the soft, gentle kisses from before, either, but a deep, passionate kiss, one that makes her feel boneless in his arms. 

“Richard,” she breathes when they pull apart at last, his chest heaving against hers. 

“It will not always be like this,” he murmurs. “But I hope this will tide you over until the next time I can kiss you.”

“You had better give me another one,” she urges, “just to be sure.”

He smiles. “I suppose I’d better.” 

So he does.

.

Anne is so happy in the coming days that she feels lighter than air. Nothing, not even George, can ruin her happiness. Every day she sees Richard in chapel, and very occasionally he will arrange a meeting in the confessional booth, and not once does George seem suspicious.

Or so she thinks.

.

One night, she has a dream that hands are grabbing at her, bearing her on a wave that carries her far away from Westminster Palace.

When she wakes, she sees that it wasn’t a dream.

She is in a bare room on a straw pallet, more straw littering the floor of the room. The walls are whitewashed stone, and the morning light filters through the room’s only window, one that is so high up Anne has no hope of looking outside it. 

In naught but her nightgown, she wraps her arms around herself, stumbling out of bed and wondering if this is some horrible dream. It must be; she doesn’t know this place. She wanders to the door, trying to open it...but it’s locked. 

Anne knocks on the door, her heart pounding. “Hello?” she calls. “Hello, is anyone there?”

It takes a long time, but someone finally opens the door; a tall, sturdy-looking woman with black hair and a pinched face. “Are we quite finished with this little game, Danielle?”

Anne blinks up at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did you hit your head?” the woman asks waspishly. “I’m sick of playing pretend. You know we have a shop to run.”

“I…” Anne looks around her. “Where am I?”

“Your room, of course. Are you still maintaining this fiction that you’re a noble lady?”

“I  _ am _ a noble lady,” Anne says, furrowing her brow.

“Yes,” the woman says, lip curling, “and I’m a baroness.”

“Please, what’s happening?” Anne begs. “I’m so confused, I don’t know where I am or who you are...please just tell me--”

“You know perfectly well who I am, you ungrateful child. I am your stepmother and your sole caretaker after the tragic death of your father.”

Anne can feel tears spilling down her cheeks. “No, that’s not...my mother is still alive, she’s in sanctuary at Beaulieu Abbey--”

The woman lifts her hand and slaps Anne across the face.

Anne stumbles back, clutching her cheek. Never, not once in her life, has anyone struck her like that before. Her parents had never hit her, not for any reason, and the servants certainly had never. 

It fills Anne with a white-hot fury. “How dare you?!” she demands, whirling to face the woman. She tries to summon the strength and anger of Margaret of Anjou, the most terrifying woman she knows. “I am Lady Anne Neville, the kingmaker’s daughter--”

The woman slaps her again, and Anne cries out as the force of this slap sends her sprawling on to the floor. 

“You,” the woman pronounces, “are no more than a common orphan who has a bed and a roof over her head because of my generosity. Do not test that generosity, Danielle, or you may well see yourself on the street.” She turns to leave the room. “I will leave you for a while longer, so you may reflect on your impertinence.”

Despite the stinging in her cheeks, Anne feels numb. How can any of this be true? Danielle? A common orphan? Her  _ stepmother? _

It must be a dream. It  _ has _ to be. But then...why didn’t she wake when the woman slapped her? Her cheeks still sting; surely she wouldn’t be able to feel that if she was asleep. 

Some niggling doubt in her head wonders if perhaps there is some truth to what the woman said. Why else would she be so certain of it?

But no. Anne knows who she is. The woman is clearly wrong. 

So Anne huddles on her straw pallet and prays for a way out of this horrible place.

.

Hours pass before the door opens again. This time it is a pretty blonde with a cold smile, bearing a tray with a meat pie and a cup of ale. 

“Hello, stepsister,” she greets. “I heard you’ve been naughty again.”

Anne sits up on her pallet, clutching the blanket around her. “Who are you?”

“Don’t be foolish. I’m your stepsister, remember? Marguerite.”

“I don’t have a stepsister,” Anne says wearily. 

“Silly, of course you do. You have me and Jacqueline, remember?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Oh dear.” Marguerite clucks her tongue as she sets down the tray. “You  _ are _ having a turn. Well, you know you won’t be allowed out until you’ve recovered your wits.”

Anne grabs her sleeve as the other woman starts to go. “Please...what’s going on?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Marguerite says loftily. She yanks back her arm and leaves, the lock clicking after she’s closed the door.

Anne sighs, reaching for the tray. Maybe something in her belly will help her clear her mind--though she doesn’t think any amount of stew or ale will help her understand what she’s doing here.

.

It’s dark out when the black-haired woman returns. Anne has been lying on the pallet for lack of anything else to do, shivering, but the woman brings her another blanket and a fresh tray of food. 

“Are you quite finished with your little game, Danielle?”

“I don’t understand,” Anne pleads with her. “Can you just... _ tell _ me?”

“Tell you what?” the woman demands, nostrils flaring.

“What’s happening?”

“My dear, you get these notions in your head sometimes; games of pretend that go too far. It seems now you believe you are...what was it you said?”

Anne looks at her feet. “It doesn’t matter.”

“That’s right, Danielle,” the woman says encouragingly. “ _ It doesn’t matter. _ Because it’s all a fantasy. You are Danielle, and you belong here. The sooner you realize that, the sooner we can let you out of this dreadful room and back to business.”

_ We can let you out of this room. _

Anne begins to understand that she must play along and pretend she is this Danielle, or else she’ll never be allowed to leave. And the sooner she can leave this room, the sooner she can make her escape and flee to...somewhere. 

But she can’t leap too eagerly into the role, or they’ll suspect something is off. She has to give it until the morning. So she nods and mumbles a halfhearted thanks to the woman, taking her tray of food. 

She drifts in and out of sleep that night, cold and uncomfortable. Her nose runs, and she shivers violently beneath the blankets. The creeping sunlight brings a welcome warmth, faint as it is, and she sleeps soundly for an hour or so before the black haired woman opens the door again.

Anne sits up, offering a tired smile.

“Well, Danielle. How did you sleep?”

“Not very well,” Anne says honestly. “I was very cold.”

“Yes, you sound a bit under the weather,” the woman agrees with a slight frown.

“I feel more like myself, Stepmother.”

The woman’s eyebrow arches. “Do you?”

“I do,” Anne assures her. “I know I’ve been playing a silly game, and it’s time to stop all that now. I am Danielle, your stepdaughter.”

The woman considers her for a moment. “Well, if you can behave this way, I see no reason for you to spend quite so much time in here. Up you get, child.”

Anne does, hardly daring to believe her luck as she follows the woman out of the room. She follows her down a corridor, and as they walk, they pass a set of stairs; Anne cranes her neck and gets a glimpse of a window with a view of the street, and beside it, a door.

She bolts for it, bare feet scrabbling over the stairs as she flees from her captor. The woman shouts, and Anne has nearly made it when a tall, sturdy girl of an age with her knocks her to the ground. Anne tries to get up, but the girl sits on her. 

“Insolent wretch!” the woman rages. The girl gets off of Anne, and the woman hauls her up by the arm, dragging a thoroughly winded Anne up the stairs. “Back to the room you go.”

“I am Anne Neville!” Anne shouts furiously, writhing to get free. “I am the kingmaker’s daughter!”

The woman slaps her with her free hand, and Anne cringes back long enough for the woman to throw her into the room. 

“You need more time to reflect,” she says nastily. The door swings shut behind her, the lock clicking.

Anne crawls back to her pallet, sobbing. Her face hurts, her whole body aches, and she’s so cold. She just wants to go back to Westminster. 

.

She drifts in and out of a cold, miserable sleep. Her runny nose only gets worse, as do the aches in her body, and she develops a cough. When Marguerite comes to bring her her midday meal, her eyes widen at the sight of Anne. 

“Danielle?” she asks hesitantly.

“I’m so cold,” Anne murmurs. “Can I have another blanket? Please?”

Marguerite doesn’t say anything, just sets down the tray and leaves the room. Anne burrows deeper into her pallet, and is surprised when the door opens again a moment later, the black-haired woman and Marguerite standing in the doorway. The black-haired woman leans down to feel Anne’s forehead and neck.

“Jesu, she’s hot,” the woman says, visibly concerned. 

“She looks ill, Mother,” Marguerite says uneasily. 

Anne coughs, her whole body wracking. 

“Help me move her to your room, Marguerite.”

_ “My _ room!” Marguerite exclaims. “But--”

“Shall I tell the Duke of Clarence that his ward died because you refused to help her?” the woman snaps.

_ The Duke of Clarence. _ Anne’s head is foggy, but that detail stands out.  _ He put me here. _

Marguerite and the black-haired woman half-drag, half-carry Anne to a room down the hall. They put her in a warm bed, pulling blankets up to her chin and stoking the fire until it’s roaring. Warm at last, Anne falls into a deep sleep.

.

When she wakes, it’s to find the girl who knocked her to the floor sitting beside her, her eyes drooping. She straightens up when she sees that Anne is awake, rubbing the tiredness from her face. “My la--I mean, Danielle,” she says, cheeks reddening. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” Anne croaks. “My throat…”

The girl seems to understand. She holds a cup up to Anne’s lips; Anne drinks deeply, the lukewarm liquid soothing her throat. 

“You gave us a fright,” the girl says, reaching forward to feel Anne’s head. “Your fever’s gone down.” She bites her lip. “I’m sorry for knocking you to the ground before.”

“That’s alright.” It isn’t, really, but Anne is determined to get information from this girl, and the best way to do that is to lower her defenses. “What’s your name? I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“Oh, it’s Jacqueline,” the girl says easily. 

“Jacqueline. That’s pretty.”

“It’s French,” Jacqueline says proudly. 

“Are you French?”

“Flemish. Well, Mother is. She’s from Ghent. Marguerite and I were born here, though.”

“I see. Earlier, your mother mentioned the Duke of Clarence. He’s the one who put me here, isn’t he?”

Jacqueline’s face falls. “I...well…”

“It’s alright,” Anne assures her. “I’m not going to tell them you told me the truth.”

Jacqueline bites her lip again. “Well...yes.” She looks at the closed door and then turns back to Anne, lowering her voice. “He paid Mother an  _ awfully _ big sum to keep you here. I don’t know the details, but Mother said we were to convince you that you were our stepsister, Danielle, and not let you leave under any circumstances whatsoever.”

“What was going to happen to me?”

“I don’t know,” Jacqueline confesses. “I  _ think _ he was to pay the sum every year.”

So, George wanted to keep her in a different prison. He must have found out about her and Richard, and wanted to keep her inheritance for himself. She wonders if Isabel knows. More importantly, she wonders if Jacqueline will help her.

“Jacqueline, you may not know this, but I’m one of the richest people in the country. It’s true. My father left me a great inheritance, and the Duke of Clarence wants to keep it for himself. I’ll wager it’s my money he’s using to buy off your mother, and not mine.” Anne grips the other girl’s sleeve. “If you could help me...I would see you repaid.”

Jacqueline looks anguished. “I don’t know, my lady...I...I shall get into monstrous trouble--”

“Not as much trouble as you’ll get into if the king finds out his kinswoman is being locked up and beaten like a prisoner,” Anne says sternly. “King Edward is my cousin. Why else do you think the Duke of Clarence put me here? He wants to hide me from the king, who would intervene on my behalf. Now, if he intervenes, things will not go well for my gaolers. But if one of them were to alert him to my captivity…”

She can see Jacqueline thinking it over. The girl hesitates...and then, “If I were to...alert him…”

Anne hides a smile. “Do you have quill and parchment?”

.

She writes a brief but urgent letter to Richard; at the end, she adds  _ A Vous My Ly _ so that he will know it is truly her. She gives Jacqueline directions so that the other girl will make sure the letter gets into Richard’s hands; this done, Jacqueline leaves with the letter and Anne’s last hope.

.

She wakes to shouting coming from below. Anne wraps a blanket around herself and staggers to the window, peering outside. She sees horses gathered outside the shop, many of them riderless. The shouting from below gets louder, and then--

The door bursts open, and when she turns around in shock, she sees--

“Richard!”

He crosses the room in two strides, gathering her against him. She melts into his embrace, sobbing with relief.

He pulls back suddenly, peering at her. “Are you alright?”

“Just a touch of cold.”

“Your face…” He strokes her cheeks, and she winces.

“The woman...the mother…”

His jaw stiffens. “She will be dealt with,” he says with uncharacteristic coldness.

“You must spare Jacqueline,” Anne insists. “She’s not like her mother and sister.”

“She will be rewarded, I promise you. For now my only concern is getting you out of here.” He pulls off his cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders. “Come along, Anne.” 

She tries to follow, but her legs are still sore after being knocked down by Jacqueline the day before and she stumbles; with one deft movement, Richard bends down and gathers in her in his arms, carrying her gently out the door and down the stairs. 

The black-haired woman and Marguerite are in the little cookshop, their faces anguished as they see their prisoner being carried by the Duke of Gloucester. 

“Your Grace--” the black-haired woman starts to say, but one of Richard’s men silences her.

Anne starts to look over Richard’s shoulder at the cookshop, but he murmurs, “Don’t look back, Anne. Don’t look back at that horrid place. Look forward, where happier times await us.”

.

Because of the uncertainty of her situation, Richard decides to lodge her at St. Martin’s. It is supposed to be a comfortable place to claim sanctuary, though Anne would take just about anything after her ordeal in the cookshop. Richard sends a physician to tend to her, and hires a maid to look after Anne and keep her company. 

In the meantime, he goes to Westminster, where he, George, and Edward end up spending weeks hashing out an agreement. Richard had wanted to give George a good thrashing, but Anne feared her brother-in-law’s wrath and begged Richard to tread carefully. He consults her several times a week, trying to figure out a way to give her her inheritance and give George the wealth and power he so desires. It is a hard balancing act, and Anne loves Richard all the more for it.

Anne recovers from her illness, Jacqueline is married to the captain of the guards, winter melts into spring, and Richard finally comes to St. Martin’s one evening with good news.

“First,” he says, strolling with Anne in the garden, “George and I have worked out an arrangement. He will take the earldom of Warwick and shall be styled the First Earl of Salisbury, and I have agreed to give him the office of Great Chamberlain.”

“Oh, Richard!”

“It’s alright,” he assures her. “In exchange, you get to keep your fortune, and Edward has named me Governor of the North, and my seat will be at Middleham.”

“Middleham!” she exclaims happily. “Then we’ll get to go home, really and truly.”

“Really and truly,” he echoes, a smile on his face. “But the good news doesn’t stop there.”

“No?”

He pulls a letter from his pocket. “Do you know what this is?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

“This is the dispensation from Rome, and not a moment too soon. We have permission from Edward, George, and now the Church to be married.”

Anne throws her arms around his neck, kissing him. “Oh, Richard, I am so happy. How soon can we be married?”

“Tonight, if you’d like,” he tells her, his eyes sparkling.

“But the banns--”

“The Church will waive them for a fee. That won’t be a problem for one of the richest women in the country, will it?”

She beams. “Can we really marry tonight?”

“Yes. And in the morning we can ride north for Middleham.”

She could cry with relief. There is only one thing that could complete her happiness. 

But Richard, as always, has thought of everything.

.

Anne and Richard marry that very night. They have two witnesses as required by canon law; one is an altar boy, and the other is Isabel.

The sisters had had a brief but heartfelt reunion. Izzy hadn’t known about George’s schemes, and she’d felt terrible once she’d learned the truth. He hadn’t allowed her to see Anne, not until everything was finalized. Only now was she free to see her sister again.

After the ceremony, the three of them have a modest but no less enjoyable dinner, talking about old times and sharing new pieces of gossip. When Izzy finally departs for the night, Richard takes Anne to bed. 

She had lost her maidenhead to her first husband, and their couplings had always been brief and unpleasant, if not downright horrible. 

It is not so with Richard.

Their coupling is tender yet passionate, and gives Anne the greatest pleasure she has ever known. When she takes his hand and gazes down into his eyes, she thinks it may be the happiest moment in her life.

.

In the morning, they set off for Middleham, where they will start a whole new life together. Packed in saddle bag is a copy of the New Testament inscribed with the motto  _ A Vous My Ly _ .


End file.
